velotel
04-20-2013, 06:15 PM
Went to Vecchio's after yesterday's ride. Switched bikes, to a road bike. Lost the low gearing, no more triple, no more fat, knobby tires. Now a compact drive, Chorus 11-speed, low gear 34/25. That could hurt. Mounted on a Moots Vamoots. The Moots fits. Feels like my Eriksen back in France. Sweet! Thank you Peter and Jim. Making my holiday for sure.
More surreal riding to kick off the festivities. Bike paths, on and on. Crazy but good. Better than good. A parallel universe, a town designed for cyclists overlain on a town for cars. Amazing. Rode for a long time, constantly switching paths like trains changing tracks, only we didn't need to slow. Burn through, big ring, tires, wheels humming.
Steaming after Mat. He's fast, carves up the bike paths with an impressive assurance. I just follow his lines. No idea where we are. Somewhere in the maze. Turns out we swept way out east and then around Boulder to the south then curled in to the west, back towards the mountains, back to Flagstaff. That was one climb I wanted to do. My older brother who died of cancer a year plus ago used to run up Flagstaff when he was a student at the university. This was awhile ago, start of the sixties. I never rode it. Too far off my fun screen back in the day. Now I wanted to.
So did my son and Steve, his good friend who imports wine and olive oil from Italy. Okay, let's go. I was worried, wondering if I had the power to ride a 34/25 up it. Trouble with getting older is that when the bar gets lowered, it's permanent. First it was from a 39/26 low to a 34/25. Last year went to 34/27. The 27 just for those moments of desperation. Apparently those moments are no longer moments. I spend lots of time on it. Could be ugly riding Flagstaff without my trusty 27. The Moots felt good, like my Eriksen. The cross bike was good but to be honest have to say that getting back on a pure road bike was excellent.
Up through the old Boulder suburbs, a rectangular grid laid down on a hill side. As in half the roads run straight up the mountain. No turns, no switchbacks, no traversing, just straight up. Rude run-in. The 34/25 worked. Definitely would have spent time on a 27 if available but it wasn't so, power on, go. Hook into the Flagstaff road. Lots of traffic. Everybody driving slow, laid back.
Hit the hard right where Mat tells me is the start of the official timing for the climb. I think they're going to need a calendar if they want to time me going up. Settle in, measuring out the power. Only for me that meant pedal to the medal, nothing more to give. Lots of fine sand on the road from the winter, pushed aside by cars, four clear tracks of blacktop, two going up, two coming down, sometimes blending into three in the curves. In France it would be three all the way up. They like to drive in the middle, going up or down. You get used to it. The italians are worse. No problem with Colorado drivers. They're well trained.
Oops, road is looking seriously steep just up ahead. Check to see if maybe I still had a bigger cog to go to. Nope. Okay, hunker in, concentrate the power, follow my son. Yea! Slacks off a bit, even move to the 23 cog. Not for long, another ramp. Kept doing that, ramps linked by steady steep. Pavement excellent. Just stay off the sand, steep enough that out of the saddle translates into immediate wheel spin. Means crowding the cars over. No one seems to mind.
Up into the snow zone. Red, white, blue, green, beautiful. Rocks, snow, sky, trees. I'm thinking how amazingly lucky I am to have a son who loves doing what I love doing, riding bikes. Up mountains. His force on the bike is impressive. I'm always chasing him down, catching his wheel, then he dials up the power a bit more and he's gone. Get to the top, or a top. Small road to the right, bar closing it but the park department had plowed a narrow path through the snow. Past the gate afoot, back on the bikes, cruising up higher, big view out over the plains. Gorgeous.
Then down. Fast. Thought the sand might make some of the turns sketchy but in the end, no big deal. Just followed my son down. He's fast. And smooth. We were flying, me going blind, just tracking his line. Total confidence. Felt like a dance, perfectly choreographed. Car pulled out in front of him, Mat blew by. Driver saw me closing in hard and fast, pulled right, let me go, Steve just behind. Gorgeous descent. Carvers all the way. Adrenalin pumping, big speed, right into downtown Boulder. Saw my son was totally euro in traffic, no hesitation, passing left, right, wherever the line was. Me on his wheel. That was sweet. Right to the door of Vecchio's. Swing inside, total bike immersion the moment the door passed.
Have to say Boulder riders have some sweet riding. Something of everything. Only missing ingredient oxygen. They're tight with that. Day three in Colorado, Flagstaff, excellent.
More surreal riding to kick off the festivities. Bike paths, on and on. Crazy but good. Better than good. A parallel universe, a town designed for cyclists overlain on a town for cars. Amazing. Rode for a long time, constantly switching paths like trains changing tracks, only we didn't need to slow. Burn through, big ring, tires, wheels humming.
Steaming after Mat. He's fast, carves up the bike paths with an impressive assurance. I just follow his lines. No idea where we are. Somewhere in the maze. Turns out we swept way out east and then around Boulder to the south then curled in to the west, back towards the mountains, back to Flagstaff. That was one climb I wanted to do. My older brother who died of cancer a year plus ago used to run up Flagstaff when he was a student at the university. This was awhile ago, start of the sixties. I never rode it. Too far off my fun screen back in the day. Now I wanted to.
So did my son and Steve, his good friend who imports wine and olive oil from Italy. Okay, let's go. I was worried, wondering if I had the power to ride a 34/25 up it. Trouble with getting older is that when the bar gets lowered, it's permanent. First it was from a 39/26 low to a 34/25. Last year went to 34/27. The 27 just for those moments of desperation. Apparently those moments are no longer moments. I spend lots of time on it. Could be ugly riding Flagstaff without my trusty 27. The Moots felt good, like my Eriksen. The cross bike was good but to be honest have to say that getting back on a pure road bike was excellent.
Up through the old Boulder suburbs, a rectangular grid laid down on a hill side. As in half the roads run straight up the mountain. No turns, no switchbacks, no traversing, just straight up. Rude run-in. The 34/25 worked. Definitely would have spent time on a 27 if available but it wasn't so, power on, go. Hook into the Flagstaff road. Lots of traffic. Everybody driving slow, laid back.
Hit the hard right where Mat tells me is the start of the official timing for the climb. I think they're going to need a calendar if they want to time me going up. Settle in, measuring out the power. Only for me that meant pedal to the medal, nothing more to give. Lots of fine sand on the road from the winter, pushed aside by cars, four clear tracks of blacktop, two going up, two coming down, sometimes blending into three in the curves. In France it would be three all the way up. They like to drive in the middle, going up or down. You get used to it. The italians are worse. No problem with Colorado drivers. They're well trained.
Oops, road is looking seriously steep just up ahead. Check to see if maybe I still had a bigger cog to go to. Nope. Okay, hunker in, concentrate the power, follow my son. Yea! Slacks off a bit, even move to the 23 cog. Not for long, another ramp. Kept doing that, ramps linked by steady steep. Pavement excellent. Just stay off the sand, steep enough that out of the saddle translates into immediate wheel spin. Means crowding the cars over. No one seems to mind.
Up into the snow zone. Red, white, blue, green, beautiful. Rocks, snow, sky, trees. I'm thinking how amazingly lucky I am to have a son who loves doing what I love doing, riding bikes. Up mountains. His force on the bike is impressive. I'm always chasing him down, catching his wheel, then he dials up the power a bit more and he's gone. Get to the top, or a top. Small road to the right, bar closing it but the park department had plowed a narrow path through the snow. Past the gate afoot, back on the bikes, cruising up higher, big view out over the plains. Gorgeous.
Then down. Fast. Thought the sand might make some of the turns sketchy but in the end, no big deal. Just followed my son down. He's fast. And smooth. We were flying, me going blind, just tracking his line. Total confidence. Felt like a dance, perfectly choreographed. Car pulled out in front of him, Mat blew by. Driver saw me closing in hard and fast, pulled right, let me go, Steve just behind. Gorgeous descent. Carvers all the way. Adrenalin pumping, big speed, right into downtown Boulder. Saw my son was totally euro in traffic, no hesitation, passing left, right, wherever the line was. Me on his wheel. That was sweet. Right to the door of Vecchio's. Swing inside, total bike immersion the moment the door passed.
Have to say Boulder riders have some sweet riding. Something of everything. Only missing ingredient oxygen. They're tight with that. Day three in Colorado, Flagstaff, excellent.